


Rage Against The Light

by Elsetetra



Series: do not go gentle into that good night [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Deathlessness, Divine Gifts, F/F, F/M, Immortality, Polyamory, Prophecy, Skyrim Main Quest, Slow Burn, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsetetra/pseuds/Elsetetra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment Ven arrived in Whiterun, the city had been in chaos. It wasn’t her fault, though. Lydia figured she was the one chasing danger, not the other way around. Perhaps, she just arrived preemptively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story, while plotted out in its entirety, is still, as is probably obvious, in the process of being written. Tags will be added and changed as new chapters are updated; I've included the most important overarching tags for now, but as I continue to write and decide upon new tags to add, those will be added.

The rain wasn’t quite torrential yet – it could be quite overwhelming this time of year, putting the whole city at a standstill. But for now, it was a gentle patter, trickling down against the stone roads of Whiterun in a sleepy rhythm. Several guards and members of the court congregated just outside the doors of Dragonsreach, eyes transfixed on the dragon painted against stormy skies in the distance, the arrows surely hurling through the air at the beast indiscernible at such a distance. Some half an hour prior, the vast majority of the city’s soldiers had charged out there to defend the city against it, lead by the Jarl’s prized Housecarl Irileth, and followed by the Redguard who’d come from the Helgen attacks, and out in the fields far from the city gates, the battle raged. Lydia’s bones shook with every hardy rumble from the beast’s mouth, but despite the dread and the rain, she was unable and unwilling to tear herself away to go inside.

                Irileth, a fellow Housecarl of the Jarl, was her closest friend in all of Whiterun and frankly all of Tamriel. She’d wanted to join the party sent to defend the city, fight alongside her, but instead was made to be content waiting at Dragonsreach for their hopeful success, and with luck, Irileth’s return. With them was the only known survivor of a dragon attack in the whole city – if not for this, her hopes would be far lower for Irileth’s survival and the success of the guard.

                Lydia had kept her eyes closely transfixed on the woman who had come to them two days ago; a Redguard, she had been one of the only survivors of Helgen. News travelled fast in Skyrim from town to town, even from hold to hold, and they were already well aware of the attack on Helgen before she even set foot through the city gates – Lydia had gotten the impression that she’d spent time in Riverwood, from her dialogue with the Jarl. Perhaps that accounted for her lateness.

                Other than that, the woman was a mystery to her, but then, so she was to the majority of the Jarl’s court. Only Farengar had been given any decent chance at interaction with her, and he’d used it to run her on an errand to Bleak Falls Barrow. She hadn’t been in Whiterun much as a consequence – by the time she returned, a dragon arrived, and all was chaos from there. Lydia didn’t think she was to blame, though. Two dragon encounters within a month, that was certainly suspicious. But Lydia had no doubt the dragon would have come regardless. Perhaps the Redguard was serving as more of a savior than a beacon for trouble.

                A final poignant bellow tore through the sky – the dragon, against a grey blotted sky, fell. The Divines were at the backs of the soldiers, the newfound dragon slayers. What Lydia had once been told was impossible was done.

                “Come on. No use standing out in the rain – it’s done.” One of the guards tapped her arm as he passed – while she would have been far keener on staying to wait for Irileth, no shelter from the elements had left her cold and miserable enough, and with the other guards, she followed.

                Lydia was still soaked when the ground positively thundered, the loud bellow shaking all of Dragonsreach. There was silence in response – eventually court members began to quietly dismiss it as thunder, but no one was believing such a weak explanation. Lydia discerned clear words from it.

                _Dovahkiin._

 

* * *

At last the doors to Dragonsreach flew open, spread wide by the force of Irileth’s palms as she thundered into the keep, dripping rainwater and tailed by guards. The doors hadn’t even closed before one of her men spoke up.

                “That woman, she’s Dragonborn!”

                The word resonated with Lydia – like it bequeathed meaning to the thundering words of before. Irileth immediately barked at the guard to be quiet; a Dunmer, she surely wasn’t one for Skyrim’s tales and traditions, and Lydia had no doubt this was a dialogue she’d be distancing herself far from.

                Irileth took her place beside the Jarl – up near the throne was not somewhere Lydia was ordinarily allowed to be, and she was unable to follow, unable to ask her what happened. She was forced into being content with watching from a distance as the Jarl turned to ask Irileth what happened in the field, though he was quickly interrupted when the front doors to the keep, with less force than before, swung open again to reveal a rain-soaked Redguard. Ven.

                “It’s good to see you’ve returned alright,” Balgruuf remarked as the woman ascended the stairs in the main hallway, approaching his throne. She was covered in rainwater and mud, and blood stained parts of her armor – not all of that, Lydia thought, was hers.

                “The dragon is dead,” Ven replied, although she was well aware the news would have been delivered to him.

                “One of my guards says something happened while you were out there.”

                Ven remained silent. Irileth sucked her teeth, desperate to avoid being involved in this conversation.

                “Are you Dragonborn?” Blunt in his words, Balgruuf had no problem broaching the subject head-on. For another moment longer, Ven was silent, but her reply came in equal earnest.

                “I’m not sure.” She wasn’t – Ven was no Nord, no native of Skyrim, still carrying her southern Hammerfell accent in her words. Fleeting words of Dragonborn had been carried into her country by Imperials centuries ago, but it wasn’t a lore that belonged to her and was not one she knew in any great detail like the inhabitants of Skyrim seemed to. “I don’t truthfully know what the Dragonborn is – outside of a legendary dragon slayer.”

                “The Dragonborn is a mortal purportedly born with the soul of a dragon,” Balgruuf explained. “Capable of absorbing the soul of a dragon and slaying it permanently. With these souls they’re said to be capable of becoming the greatest masters of the Thu’um Nirn has ever seen.”

                Ven thought on it. Certainly something happened when the dragon fell – she could still feel it in her bones, an intangible buzzing and an inexplicable understanding of something. But what that something was, she couldn’t quite conceptualize yet.

                “The call of the Greybeards was no mistake. You’d be well advised to answer them.” The court’s Thane Hrongar, who had remained relatively quiet the entire conversation, spoke at last. It was clearly a subject he was deeply passionate about – certainly one deeply rooted in his own personal beliefs. A Nord, Ven had no hard time believing he must have been raised on stories about the Dragonborn.

                “Do you know where the Greybeards may be found?” Balgruuf asked.

                “I do not.”

                “They reside in a monastery – High Hrothgar. It sits near the top of Tamriel’s highest peak, the Throat of the World.”

                “It’s quite the journey,” Hrongar explained, “but the town of Ivarstead sits at the mountain’s base. Many of the locals have made the climb to the top – no doubt you’ll find someone able to help.”

                “The service you’ve done our city is a tremendous one.” Balgruuf stood from his throne – it was the first time Ven had seen him up and about since her first arrival in Dragonsreach, and she expected he was usually found running things from his throne rather than from his feet. “I’d like to provide you with whatever assistance you’ll need in making your journey to High Hrothgar – and in endeavors beyond that as well.”

                “I’m honored, sir, really, but you can spare your expenses on me – I’ll survive perfectly fine on my own.”

                “Be as that may, compensation and honor are still owed. Hrongar – retrieve the Axe, if you will.”

                Hrongar’s expression contorted – the surprise couldn’t have been plainer, but there was no protest and Ven watched as he hurried out of the room. Balgruuf descended the few short stairs from his throne to the floor below, allowing him to meet Ven on her level where she stood. Most of the court was watching her – it was custom, she assumed, to remain intent when the Jarl took care of important business. But that still didn’t keep her heart from thundering against its confines in her ribcage in anticipation. Though not a truly brittle individual, seldom nervous, attention could be overwhelming to anyone and she was certainly feeling the heat.

                “There’s an opening in my court for the position of Thane. It’s honorary, mostly – I’d seek your counsel if needed, certainly, but beyond that, all you can expect from it is Whiterun’s support in any way we can provide it. And I’ll grant you permission to purchase property in Whiterun as well. But I would be _honored_ to have the _Dragonborn_ of all people in my court.”

                Ven swallowed thickly; this was all too much. Everything had been so overwhelming; in a matter of perhaps a week and a half she’d gone from prisoner, to fateful escapee, to errand runner, to _Dragonborn_ and _Thane_. Reeling, she nodded slowly before she had completely realized what she was doing.

                “Yes,” she said eventually, slowly. “I would be honored.”

                Balgruuf beamed brightly at her, proudly, just as Hrongar returned, a glimmering axe catching the light ever so strangely cradled within both hands. Gently, his brother took it from his hands, clasping it with the same care Hrongar had before.

                “This is the Axe of Whiterun. A court heirloom of sorts, and a gift to each who takes the position of Thane.” He outstretched his hands, bidding her wordlessly to take it from them. Gingerly, her arms outstretched to meet him and clasp it unsurely between her fingers; it thrummed against her flesh, filled to the brim with magicka; it grounded her, like its very essence was an earthly tether. “Should you need to fill a soul gem, this is the weapon to do it with. I hope you can make use of it.”

                Though it was heavy, it wasn’t too weighty that it couldn’t be supported in one hand. She slipped her hand along the helve, balancing the weight this time in one hand so that the other could trace along the patterns crafted into the steel and the leather of the axe. It was quite the piece of craftsmanship; it was an honor just to hold, let alone keep as her own.

                “We also owe you a weight sum of gold; I’ll have the treasurer sort out the funds before you leave the hall.”

                “Your generosity means a lot to me – thank you, truly.” Her eyes broke from the axe and met the Jarl’s, and she watched the corners crinkle as he smiled, soft but genuine.

                “It means a lot to have the Dragonborn fighting for the city of Whiterun. Though, there remains one thing – you’re entitled to a Housecarl in your Thaneship.”

                “Oh?”

                As Balgruuf’s eyes broke away from hers and fell to a distant figure across the hall, Ven twisted her head to fix her gaze on the Nord woman he had turned to look at – with both eyes on her, Ven could see her face contort with surprise, and hesitantly, she stepped forward till she was side by side with Ven, giving her a distinct view of the woman’s features. She was tall, burly, but with a fair, pretty face framed by dark hair, stark and contrast against her pale skin. She looked like a well-trained warrior, one Ven would hate to meet in combat.

                “Lydia is one of the court’s most prized Housecarls – she’s to be in your service, till death parts you.”

                Lydia nodded solemnly in acceptance of her duty, though Ven’s brow furrowed at his morbid terms of service. Still, she nodded, forcing her face to smooth over.

                “Thank you – I can’t truly express my gratitude.”

                “It will be the utmost honor to serve you, my Thane.” To Ven’s surprise, Lydia dropped to one knee, one fist pressed gently against her breastplate and head bowed. Her words were smooth, practiced and with hardly a twinge of emotion to them, but not mechanical or gauche.

                “It will be an _honor_ to fight alongside you,” Ven replied, and though her Housecarl’s face was tilted away from her, she could still see the brief change in expression, the flash of unidentifiable emotion splashed across it for only maybe a mere second.

                “If you’ll give me a moment,” Balgruuf interjected, speaking at last, “I’ll retrieve the coin I promised from the court treasurer.”

                Ven nodded, assuring him he could leave – he was a Jarl, it wasn’t though he awaited her command, and rather, the gesture was an empty courtesy. Balgruuf left the two alone, and Lydia rose at last.

                “Um – what, may I ask, does you being my Housecarl entail?” She knew, _more or less_ , what the duties of a Housecarl were. Even if she wasn’t raised with Skyrim’s social structure, she’d certainly spent enough time in Skyrim in yesteryears passed to know how it functioned. But the details of it, that had never been her concern.

                “As my Thane, I’m sworn to your service. Your orders are mine to fulfill and I will protect you with my life.” The smooth, practiced tone returned. Ven could tell being a Housecarl to a complete stranger wasn’t exactly Lydia’s ideal situation. She imagined she must have been happy serving under the Jarl instead, likely had made a life here.

                “Will you travel with me?” Ven supposed she could leave the other in Whiterun, obediently awaiting orders with nothing to do, but having a travelling companion would be… nice. A change. New and refreshing, and frankly warmly welcomed. Lydia’s eyes lit up, though she did her best at remaining stoic, professional.

                “I would be honored, my Thane.”

                “I have a lot of places I’ll need to go. Travelling to Riverwood in the morning is my first priority as of now – I’d like you to accompany me.”

                Before Lydia could even begin to think of a reply, one of the squires of the court stepped in. “This should cover a monetary reward for slaying the dragon.”

                The coinpurse he handed Ven was weighty and fat, and as she picked her way through it, she knew surely it was more than two hundred septims. She tucked it away with the rest.

                “Is there anything else you’ll be needing tonight, my Thane?” It neared the evening, but there were still a few ripe hours left in the day, and Lydia was unsure if she would be needed. Ven shook her head.

                “Not tonight. I’ll come to get you in the morning, though, and we can walk to Riverwood from there. Does that sound fair?”

                “Yes, my Thane. I’m looking forward to it.”

                There was a beat of silence between the two where neither really knew what to do, till slowly, Ven caught on.

                “Um – you don’t need to wait for me to dismiss you. You can go when you like.”

                Lydia was acutely aware of the other’s words as she processed them. Such freedom was seldom afforded to her by higher-ups. She wanted to speak on it, wanted to ask something of the other, but only came up with a small “Yes, my Thane,” before ducking her torso in a small half-bow and hurrying off to other parts of Dragonsreach.

 

* * *

Ven made good on her promise, arriving a good few hours after dawn to retrieve Lydia from Dragonsreach. She wasn’t sure where her Thane had stayed the night – the inn, perhaps, and she wondered why Ven hadn’t simply asked to stay at the hall. It would have been cheaper, surely, undoubtedly nicer.

                When Lydia was summoned by one of the squires, informed her Thane was there to retrieve her, Lydia crossed the hall with a brisk step to find Ven eating breakfast at the table with several other nobles. Lydia had already eaten – the Housecarls and members of the guard all woke far earlier than the nobles, training in the early dawn hours of the day. But Lydia was content to wait, placing herself near Irileth, who stood nearer to one of the pillars of the hall, and conversing. When Ven was done, she approached her Housecarl to ask if she was ready to leave, and they departed.

                Being aware of the journey ahead of her gave Lydia ample time to prepare; she’d gathered a small knapsack the night before, filled mostly with food, medical supplies, and potions. Riverwood was only an hour from Whiterun’s capital, but where they’d be going from there, Ven had neglected to inform.

                As they walked along the road, armor clinking together as each of them trudged along the stone, Lydia couldn’t help but notice Ven waving politely to one of the local farmers – Severio Palagia, if Lydia wasn’t mistaken.

                “I see you’ve begun to make yourself acquainted with the locals?” Lydia inquired, only once he was out of earshot. Ven smiled softly.

                “I ran an errand for him yesterday morning, and gave him some help on the farm. I had the time, and could use the extra coin.” The latter part wasn’t true – she had more than enough coin on her from previous exploits. “He was grateful for the help.”

                Lydia smiled fondly. “That was kind of you.”

                Though she had her eyes mostly fixed on the road in front of them, she could see Ven shrug in her peripheral vision.

                “Did you work on a farm before you came to Skyrim?” Or perhaps after. Lydia knew next to nothing of the other’s story.

                “I did, actually. My aunt owned one. My brother and I lived with her while our parents travelled.”

                “You lived in Hammerfell, correct?”

                “I did. I’ve been in and out of Skyrim for several years now, though. So I’m familiar with what it has to offer, at least.”

                “You picked a fine time to come back, what with the Civil War and all.”

                Ven laughed. “Yes, I’ve had some issues.”

                “Do you have any friends or family in Skyrim?”

                “Just one friend. We met in Helgen – he was the one who helped me out. He’s the one we’re going to visit, actually. He’s an Imperial soldier.”

                “You were lucky to have been in Helgen at the same time as Imperial soldiers. Not many survive dragon attacks.”

                Ven hummed, a thin smile on her face. “Well. Perhaps not too much.” She deliberated her next words carefully. “I was there to be executed.”

                The shellshock was plain in Lydia’s voice when she spoke, turning her gaze to Ven and nearly stopping altogether. “What?”

                With a weak laugh, Ven grimaced. “I was caught trying to cross the border into Skyrim. The same party that had Ulfric Stormcloak, unfortunately. They were just going to have us all executed as to not worry about things.” She neglected to mention, of course, the part where she had been caught with contraband material. Getting caught in the midst of a smuggling job was rare for Ven; being a prisoner alongside a rebel leader was a miracle. And there was nothing more terrifying than a miracle.

                The expression of horror on Lydia’s face was priceless. “They would just lump you in with the others like that?”

                “If it’s any consolation to you,” Ven replied, “the friend we’re going to visit is the one who tried to protest to decision.”

 

* * *

When they arrived at Riverwood, the late morning sun hung overhead the quiet town, barely busy despite nearly being lunch time. It was small, only a select few buildings and residents. Children played, chasing each other around with a barking dog in tow; the blacksmith toiled and the guards walked; the farmers tended to their fields, and everything was peaceful and quiet. So much unlike Whiterun, Lydia noted.

                Wordlessly, she towed behind Ven as she approached the blacksmith’s home. The man striking hot metal outside was a clear Nord, burly with fair hair. When Ven approached, boots heavy across the wood of their porch, he turned his head from his work, and smiled.

                “Back from Whiterun already. How did the trip go?”

                “It was eventful, to say the least. Is Hadvar inside?”

                “Aye, with Sigrid. They’ll be eager to see you.”

                “Thank you, Alvor.”

                Turning on her heel, Ven gestured for Lydia to do the same, walking with her to the front door of the house. With a gentle warning rap against the wood with her knuckles, Ven waited a moment before pushing the door open. Behind it, Lydia could see in the moderately lit home a tall Nord woman, her face fair and her hair a soft brown color. Her face lit up as soon as she saw the two on the outside, and Ven took it as a signal to enter, Lydia close behind. Once in the room, she locked eyes with another Nord, his hair nearly shoulder length and very near in shade to the woman’s; broadly built, Imperial armor hung from his shoulders. He must have been the man Ven mentioned.

                “Ven! Back already?” With a small smile, the woman’s eyes met Lydia’s briefly before turning back to the food she was preparing.

                “The day was eventful enough, rest assured,” Ven replied, voice grim with her thin smile. The woman turned a worried smile her way.

                “Well, come in. Lunch is nearly done.”

                The man had stood while Ven spoke with who, Lydia assumed, was his mother; he looked at least three years younger than Ven, an ample age for serving the Legion.

                “Glad to see you got back alright. Word got down here that a dragon attacked Whiterun last night.” The man pulled Ven into a tight embrace – hearty, the kind Lydia often saw comrades in battle partake in when they hadn’t seen each other in too long for comfort in a bloody civil conflict like this.

                “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” she replied, voice alarmingly light given the weight of the context – a _dragon attack_ on Whiterun. Ven separated. “Lydia, this is Hadvar. Who I told you about. Hadvar, this is Lydia. She’s my Housecarl.”

                Hadvar looked thoroughly shocked at that. “How did you manage to get a _Housecarl_?”

                “That dragon attack you mentioned?”

                “Yes?”

                “I helped slay it. It earned me the position of Thane.”

                “ _Thane_?” It was the woman who spoke this time, voice a pitch higher and dripping in astonishment. Ven laughed.

                “Yes, Sigrid. Thane.”

                “You have a lot of explaining to do. Here, sit – let’s eat.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia couldn’t help but notice the kind of details Ven omitted when she told the story of the dragon attack on Whiterun as they settled down for lunch. The fact that Ven was Dragonborn, for instance. She wondered what kind of details she omitted from other tales of her life.

                Post-lunch, Alvor disappeared back to his forge while his daughter raced out to meet her friends, and Ven and Hadvar lingered momentarily locked in dialogue as Sigrid tended to dishes. Waiting only a brief moment, Lydia stood and took a few steps across the small house to Sigrid.

                “Would you like help with that?”

                “If you don’t mind,” Sigrid replied, nodding towards her in a gesture to come closer. “I really appreciate it.”

                Lydia wasted no time getting to what Sigrid handed her. “It’s no problem.” Service came too naturally to her.

                There was a beat of silence in the household – brief, the only sound the clattering of wood and the popping of the fire as a lull found its way into Ven and Hadvar’s words – until Hadvar spoke up, addressing Sigrid.

                “I’m going to go on a walk. Do you need anything?”

                “There’s thirteen septims on the table over there. Pick up some venison from Delphine on your way home – she said she had some extra we could have for cheap.”

                “Will do.” Standing, Hadvar crossed the home to the round table in question, pocketing a small, light sack of septims. He turned to Ven. “Would you like to come with me?”

                “Sure.” She stood, going for the door, but on the way out, stopped. “Will you be alright here, Lydia?”

                “I’ll be fine, my Thane. Enjoy your walk.”

                Ven nodded, and disappeared out the door.

                As the end of summer rolled around, nearing the month of Hearthfire, the southern Skyrim air was still warm. It was, of course, still Skyrim, not hot enough to make the skin sticky and the limbs sluggish even in its hottest months, and Ven could appreciate the change of pace from the scorch of her homeland. And it made leisurely walks that much more pleasant.

                “I still can’t believe you slayed a dragon,” Hadvar remarked, side by side with Ven as they meandered slowly towards the edge of town. “Surviving an attack, that’s hard enough, but slaying a dragon!”

                Ven laughed. “I wasn’t the _only_ one. Most of the guard was there.” _Most of the guard also didn’t survive_ , she reminded herself.

                “Still, I would have loved to be part of the action like that. Do you know how dull working for the Legion is? You wouldn’t think so, but it is. Helgen was the most exciting thing that had happened to me in months – and it would have been even if that dragon never showed. What a story I’d get to tell! ‘I was a part of the execution party for that bastard rebel leader, I was in the party responsible for the capture of Ulfric Stormcloak.’ How many soldiers get to say that?”

                “But you hear so many glorious stories of how exciting the Legion is.”

                “Yes, but that’s if you’re higher up and you get to do more important things than patrol the Skyrim border for eight hours a day,” Hadvar countered. “I might get promoted though. For surviving Helgen. That’s why I’m leaving tomorrow – there’s a camp they want me in out south of Windhelm. Legate Rikke will be there, supposedly. She’s the second in command of the whole Legion. So I have high hopes.”

                “A promotion would mean a lot,” Ven concurred.

                “Mhmm.” There was a beat of silence between them, and then, “What do you plan on doing now?”

                They had long since left the town and were now well on their way into the wilderness; a small walk around the forests outside to the Standing Stones and back might take perhaps an hour at most.

                “I… don’t know,” Ven confessed. “I’m supposed to be answering summons at High Hrothgar but I don’t actually think I’ll go. Perhaps I’ll head to Markarth. A family in Whiterun needs someone to visit one of the Thalmor encampments up near there anyways. So I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.”

                “A summons at High Hrothgar.” Hadvar slowed, steps faltering to a stop momentarily. “You can’t be talking about that rumbling Thu’um from yesterday.” When Ven stopped but did not face him, did not reply, he began to wring his hands. “Ven?”

                “They think I’m Dragonborn,” she replied at last, still looking at something indeterminate in the distance. “And I suppose they might be right. I don’t think I’d know if I were.”

                “Dragonborn,” he echoed; his voice dripped with bewilderment. She nodded, and with a breathy laugh, he continued, “I can’t believe I saved the life of the _Dragonborn_ in Helgen.”

                For the first time since the conversation started, she laughed. Hell, for the first time since all this Dragonborn business started, she felt like she could laugh about it at all.

                “So I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.”

                “Can you use the Thu’um?”

                “Pardon?”

                “The Shout.” They had since resumed walking, though Hadvar’s words almost made Ven stop.

                “I don’t know what that is.”

                “So – alright.” Hadvar rubbed a hand over his mouth, mulling with careful consideration what words he should use to explain. “In early, early days of Skyrim, several dragons taught to humans their Thu’um. Words of Power in their tongue, phrases that could accomplish certain things if the human trained to be able to use it for long enough. That bastard rebel used it to murder the high king. Just shouted the poor man apart.”

                “I haven’t trained in any such thing.” She sounded almost exhausted – it felt stupid to have to remind him.

                “No, I know, I’m getting to that.” He flapped a hand dismissively. “The Dragonborn is supposed to be able to just… use these words? Absorb the knowledge, I think. Learn them and know how to use them because they’ve got the soul of a dragon, so despite their mortal body they’ve got abilities in the study of the Thu’um beyond what other humans have.”

                Ven remained quiet, contemplative, even long after he spoke; the forest was quiet, and aside from the breeze rustling the trees and the birds chittering along gently, the only real sound was two pairs of boots hitting the laid stone and the gravel of the road.

                “It’s okay if you don’t. I know most Dragonborn still require training.”

                “No, there’s just… something.” Ven didn’t know how to word it. The thing clawing at her maw; the thunder all but ripping at her lungs, the faint echo of a word. The Nordic chanting from Bleak Falls Barrow that remained a faint echo she couldn’t shake if she thought too much about the word that burned into her mind, it had returned, faint and unshakable in the back of her head. “There’s this word. It’s not in the common tongue, I couldn’t tell you what it means, but _I know_ what it means.”

                Hadvar stopped again, though this time not with faltering steps, feet firmly planted instead.

                “Try it.”

                “Hadvar, you can’t be serious, I’ve –”

                He put up a hand to hush her, and she clamped her jaw shut, indignant. Once she was quiet, he slowly gestured to an elk across the river from them – it hadn’t noticed them yet, hadn’t paid any mind to two harmless pedestrians in the forest that hadn’t seemed to notice it, but if they lingered for any longer, it would.

                Despite his wordless gesture, Ven knew exactly what he meant. She had no idea what this Thu’um would even do, let alone if she should be aiming it at an elk across the way.

                But it was _clawing_ at her. It was like lightning had struck and it was all but screaming from her throat for the thunder. It was wrong for it to touch the ground and not have its brother follow.

                Sucking in a sharp breath, she steeled herself, and the word erupted from her maw – the _“Fus”_ was all raw power and it hit the elk with all the force of a dragon attack. Thrown back into the rocks behind it, the elk ragdolled, hitting the ground hard. Ven heard its spine crack on impact, a few more bones going on the way down.

                Thunder said, it’s me. It’s been a long time, brother.

* * *

“We brought the venison back.” As soon as they were through the door, two legs of an elk’s corpse each between them as they hoisted it into the house, Hadvar called out to his aunt. Her approaching footsteps pounded up the stairs from the basement, and when her head crested the floorboard and she could see what the two had returned with, she nearly screamed.

                “Hadvar!” Sigrid was indignant. “A whole elk?”

                Sheepish, Hadvar grinned as they gently dropped the elk to the floor. It wouldn’t bleed, its death dealt out by injuries internal, and they could spread it on the floorboards without fear of caking them sticky and thick with blood.

                “Delphine did not give this to you for _thirteen septims_.”

                His hands now free, Hadvar was able to fish around in his pockets for what money he’d been given before he departed. The thirteen septims clattered to the table and Sigrid looked about ready to scream.

                “Where did you _get_ this?” she demanded, gesturing roughly to the corpse laying still warm on her floor. “If you bought this with your own money, Hadvar, I have words for you – you don’t _need_ to spend your money on us, there’s a reason your uncle is out there toiling away at his forge. It’s not just for his health, Hadvar, he’s earning a living for this household.”

                “I know, I know.” His hands went up defensively, easing her down. “We ran across it on our walk. Killed it. Thought a whole elk free would be better even than Delphine’s meat.” And Delphine’s meat, cheap as it was, was rivaled by few in Whiterun hold. It had to be, one of the only vendors in the whole of Riverwood that sold venison. No one asked where she got it. She preferred to keep it that way.

                Sigrid ran a hand through her hair. “Take this out back with me. We’ll butcher it up, get it stored away. This is going to feed us for _weeks_.” She met her nephew’s eyes, expression all gratitude. “ _Thank you._ ”

* * *

The basement of the house contained a few beds that guests were free to, and while it was deeply colder in comparison to the upstairs of the house, there was a small place for a fire that Ven tended to attentively and Lydia really couldn’t complain much.

                She watched her Thane feed another log into the fire, the flicker of the flames casting dancing shadows across her features, sharpening her soft countenance with their dark and deep contrasts. Words fluttered on the tip of Lydia’s tongue and she struggled with the resolve to speak them, till at last she opened her mouth.

                “How did you and Hadvar kill that elk?”

                “Hmm?” Ven looked away from the fire at last, whole face twisting towards her Housecarl. The shadows shifted dramatically and she looked like an entirely different person.

                “You didn’t take any weapons with you. Maybe a knife or two where I couldn’t see it but none that could bring down an elk, and not from afar.” Suddenly Lydia’s confidence in her own question faltered. “Forgive my asking, my Thane, I just—”

                “I used the Thu’um.”

                Ven had never seen someone’s eyes light up so brightly at a set of words before like that, surely not Lydia after so few days of spending time together. But just the mention of the Thu’um had Lydia’s entire frame straightening with interest, excitement. Ven continued.

                “We just – we talked about it and he wanted to know if I could use it. I can. It’s… something else.”

                “Will you show me?”

                Ven laughed, the sound soft and almost startled. “Not right _now_ ,” she replied, though it wasn’t completely serious. She knew that wasn’t what Lydia meant. “Later. In combat or something. It’s – it’s quite the force to behold.”

                “Alright.” It was a promise Lydia intended to hold her to.

* * *

Morning light brought a busy household, plans being exchanged and formed as breakfast was cooked and the day was prepared for. Hadvar, Ven, and Lydia would all be departing not long after breakfast – there was a lot to prepare for prior.

                Lydia was beyond gracious to their host; helping to cook and clean in any way she could, her inclination for servitude frankly got the best of her, although no one was about to complain. The post-breakfast bustle had her rushing around the house in an attempt to fetch everything Sigrid needed, making the load of work significantly easier.

                “So this road here splits at the river,” Hadvar explained to Ven, gesturing to a point on the map as he explained the routes of Skyrim to her. “This is where we’ll part. I’ll be heading east to this point here.” His finger settled on a point out near Windhelm, across the river south of it and buried deep in the mountains. “And from there, once we get our orders, it’ll likely be all the way up here.” Dragging his finger along the paper of the map, he traced the road from the Imperial encampment to Solitude. Capital of the Legion and, really, all of Skyrim. He’d been urging Ven to travel there, make some attempt at joining the Imperial legion, but it wasn’t a decision she was terribly sure about making.

                “The main road here goes all the way to Markarth, yes?” Ven traced it gently with her on finger along the paper of the map. “If we keep on it we should be there in two, perhaps three days max.”

                “You can also continue on that main road from Markarth to Solitude,” Hadvar reminded, and Ven smiled tiredly. That was four times now this morning alone. “You should come stop by. It’s worth being there, anyways, even if you do nothing. Gorgeous city.”

                “I’ll stop in,” she promised at last, and Hadvar grinned broadly.

* * *

“I suppose this is where we part.” Hadvar, all geared up in his Imperial armor, slowed to a halt at the split in the road. One direction went to Whiterun, and eventually Markarth, Morthal, Solitude, and so on. The other direction went to Windhelm, Riften, other Eastern holds of the nation. The former would be Ven and Lydia’s route; the latter, Hadvar’s.

                “Perhaps we’ll see you in Solitude,” Lydia offered, to Hadvar’s delight.

                “Perhaps! I don’t know when I’ll be headed that way but surely by the time you’re done with your business in the West, we’ll cross paths.”

                “It was good seeing you again, Hadvar.”

                “I don’t know when we’ll meet next, so you take care of yourself. Stay away from those dragon attacks.” His voice was light, words said fully in jest. So when he sobered significantly, it took Ven off guard. “Don’t take too long to answer that summons. That’s an important duty you’ve found yourself with.”

                “I know.” Her hands found his, holding them both in hers and squeezing them tightly in reassurance. “We’ll be down there soon enough.”

                “Good. Come here.” He broke away, tugging her in for a hug – again, that emphatic kind of hug shared between soldiers, comrades. It must come naturally to Hadvar, Lydia thought, doling out that kind of affection to those he deemed close to him.

                The walk was significantly quieter once Hadvar left the party, Lydia and Ven walking side by side in relative silence. Whiterun was their first destination, with plenty each needed to do: stock up on supplies, trade with the blacksmith, so on, and so on – preparations for a several days’ journey on a dangerous road would come neither cheap nor easy.

                As they approached the gates, Severio passed again; he gave a short wave, a gesture which Ven returned. Since the dragon had been slain, Whiterun gates were open once more, and getting in was no problem – then again, the guards would be foolish to try and keep the Jarl’s Thane and her Housecarl out of the city.

                Whiterun roads were, as typical, relatively bustling. Not packed, necessarily – pedestrians weren’t elbow to elbow with each other, there was room to move freely and the population of the roads was more or less a spattering, but it was busy, lively none the less. In the late morning, it was common for the streets to find themselves more sprightly than usual as residents ran their errands, Lydia had quickly noted in her time here. They would be lucky if there wasn’t a line just to get into the blacksmith’s shop.

                And they were lucky – only one party stood in line before them, and while they took a long time all the same, it was a small party. Individuals dressed uniformly in Thieves’ armor Ven had seen in passing in earlier bouts of business – two women clad in dark brown leathers, covered with buckles and pockets and various reinforcements. Lydia stiffened visibly when her eyes locked with one of them; as the two passed, confidence clear in their saunter, the looks on their face couldn’t be smugger, their eyes never leaving Lydia’s distressed visage as they exited. Lydia remained with shoulders squares and stance widened, trying to make herself bigger (despite the fact that she didn’t really need the help in looking bigger than most anyone around, tall and burly in stature.)

                A beat of silence passed once the door shut behind the two women, and Ven stepped towards the counter, Lydia reluctantly in tow. The man behind the counter looked uneasy – Ven suspected it was more because of that brief display than anything else.

                “Did they give you any trouble, Ulfberth?” As soon as they were at the counter, Lydia was practically doting over the shopkeep, clearly having expected the worst from the two women.

                “No, no – they were in here purchasing. Respectable business, for once.”

                “Surprising for _felons_ ,” Lydia muttered, a comment Ven barely caught. Her stomach turned. It was probably best not to let Lydia know why she recognized that armor.

                “We’re just here to exchange some of our supplies, if at all possible.” Changing the subject was best for now.

                “Not a problem! Let me see what you’ve got. I can take some things off your hands and you can make up the difference in price when you purchase, does that sound fair?”

                Ven nodded. She had plenty of gold – savings from before Helgen she had hidden away that she’d managed to come back into, despite the fact that all the money on her person had been confiscated, and money from services to the Jarl.

                Giving her the back room to change in, Ulfberth gave Ven the chance to slip out of her armor in to plainer, less combat ready clothing in order for him to inspect what she had. Lydia was quite content with what steel armor she had – it was crafted by Adrianne herself, in fact, and the job couldn’t be finer. With no nicer armor available for sale, she decided she’d quite like to keep what she had.

                Ven, on the other hand, got a pretty price for her iron armor. it was no Avenicci armor, not by a long shot, but was still enough to cover over half the price of a new set of steel armor freshly crafted in shop a few days prior. Despite the significant differences in appearance, Lydia and Ven’s armor sets more or less matched at this point – Lydia would continue to don a Nordic helmet Alvor had sold her in Riverwood, one that sported grand antlers and provided significant coverage, and Ven had, to Lydia’s dismay, chosen to go without the helmet. “Harder to see through,” she had told her Housecarl. “It doesn’t make archery very easy.”

                Ulfberth was happy to have their service – Ven even paid to have Adrianne fix up her bow for her, a cheap little Imperial thing that had stood to serve her well since getting out of Helgen. With Adrianne’s improvements, it was functioning better than ever.

                A few more stops around town – the general store, the Drunken Huntsman, a quick browse through the marketplace – and their supplies were fully stocked for the long journey to Markarth and they were gone.

* * *

 

All things considered, Ven thought as they walked, they probably could have taken a carriage. It wasn’t as though they weren’t heading somewhere the carriages serviced, like a small town in the middle of nowhere or an abandoned ruin or some such thing; it was Markarth, one of the largest cities in all of Skyrim. Certainly one of the most interesting, from how Lydia described it. Built into the ruins of an old Dwemer city, it was massive, sprawling vertically as well as horizontally. And it was nice, a good place for business and near enough to Northwatch that they’d be able to visit and attempt to barter for the release of Fralia Grey-mane’s son, as Ven had promised long before the dragon attack happened. Even if things had been, more or less, thrown off, visiting Markarth and making good on that promise would be easy enough.

                The weather remained fair for most of the hike, the journey along Skyrim’s main road quiet. A passing Khajiit caravan gave Ven a chance to peruse their goods, though there wasn’t anything that stood out or remained within her budget. But aside from an encounter with a few skeevers and, later, a thief on the road (whom Lydia very pointedly made turn with his tail between his legs,) the walk was otherwise awfully quiet.

                “Why did you react the way you did in Warmaiden’s?” Ven broke the silence about halfway through their walk, as the sun began to lower in the sky and they began to approach the late evening.

                “The Thieves’ Guild has no business being in Whiterun,” Lydia replied bitterly, voice full of scorn. “There’s not a merchant in the city willing to put up with their foul behavior. There’s no place for it.”

                “Did something happen between you and the Guild?” Ven had interacted with them in prior business transactions – pre-Helgen business – and had never found them to be too unpleasant a bunch, aside from the obvious point of their outrageously illicit business. But when Ven had been, more or less, engaged in the same business, she’d enjoyed working with their members. They were never too short with her, always fair in what cut she earned, and while she never dealt with anyone higher up directly, they seemed to be under decent enough management despite the fact that the Guild had been falling out of power for nearly two decades now. All in all, she couldn’t imagine what horrible thing they must have done to Lydia to warrant such abhorrence.

                “ _Please_ , they’re foul individuals. There’s no business more dishonorable than _thievery_ – but, then again, I suppose they must be better than mere bandits if only for their apparent ‘no kill’ policy.”

                Ven concempliated her words, sucking her teeth and staying silent. She’d actually been hoping to get back into said _“dishonorable business,”_ and with Lydia around, that was in no way an option, it seemed.

                Silence sat over them for a while longer – ten, twenty minutes, perhaps – till a mountain pass came into view ahead, foggy hanging thin over the ground.

                “The weather seems to be souring up ahead, my Thane.” It was true – aside from the fog, the gray clouds darkened not far out from the pass, rapidly moving in. A light gray overcast had settled over them as they walked, but nothing looking so foully like stormy weather as what was in store further ahead.

                “We’ll find a place to settle down for the night in a little bit. It’s getting late anyways.”

                With that in mind, they continued – it hadn’t gotten terribly cold, and the storm clouds looked awfully far out, and the valley they’d found themselves in surely would have some sort of a place to settle down for the night. A divergence from the main road was visible up ahead – just a small path, nothing like an actual split in the road, but enough to pique curiosity – and Ven quickened her pace to investigate.

                Across the river was a large staircase, visible from even the road, and Ven stood for a moment with her eyes fixed firmly on it as Lydia caught up.

                “What is it, my Thane?”

                “A staircase over there. There’s some kind of ruins.”

                “Looks like a redoubt,” Lydia remarked, peering into the thin fog towards what little of the ruins she could see.

                A beat of silence passed, and then, before Lydia could protest, Ven was off towards the staircase, calling out behind her, “Let’s go look at it.”

                Lydia personally wouldn’t have wanted to go anywhere near it – the ruins and redoubts of Skyrim were dangerous, filled with draugr, forsworn, all manner of beasts. It wouldn’t be the best place to settle down and exploring a place like this so late in the day would only be a waste of time, in Lydia’s opinion, but where her Thane went, she followed, and begrudgingly, she dragged herself across the shallow waters of the river to catch up with Ven.

                The fog had thinned significantly, and continued to do so the further up they got. As they neared the top of the staircases, Lydia stopped – even over the noise of Ven’s armor, she could hear something moving in the ruins, and she hurried forward, grabbing Ven’s hand and dragging her down to a crouch.

                “There’s something up ahead,” Lydia hissed, her tone dripping with urgency. “We need to approach with caution.”

                “The ruins are so out in the open, hardly anything could manage to get the jump on us. It’ll be fine, I promise.” Ven stood, and while she did move slower as she proceeded, she hardly took caution or stealth into account, walking towards the entrance to the ruins stood straight up and the absolute picture of overtness.

                Lydia hissed in frustration, hurrying ahead, trying to remain crouched and out of sight while she caught up with her Thane.

                The first arrow struck Ven in the shoulder. Finding a space between the metal of her armor, it dug deep into the flesh, pain searing.

                The second struck her in her chest, knocking her back; she hit the ground, head lulled backwards, and from her new vantage point she could see the third arrow – the one that lodge itself through Lydia’s helmet into what Ven assumed was her eye, stopping her short and taking her out immediately. She’d been rushing to Ven’s aid before being struck – if Ven had never been hit in the first place, if she’d _listened_ , none of this would never have happened.

                She didn’t even have a chance to so much as think about getting up before the Forsworn closed in; when a blade drove through her ribcage and punctured into her chest, the awful drowning feeling as blood poured into her lungs accompanying the flicker of darkness that overtook her and her heart stopped beating.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is obscenely small (only just below 3k words) and I promise that's something that won't be happening much at all, if ever again, with this story. The nature of the scenes the chapter focuses on just made it near impossible to keep going on when the focus would be shifting too drastically. The next chapter will probably be upwards of 7k to make up for this one.

The second she woke her lungs sputtered, sucking in air with an alarmed gasp like she’d only ever known drowning. She had just drowned, in fact, on her own blood, but that was beside the point.

 

               Lydia’s familiar face caught her eye first, her Housecarl’s expression more than worried. Crouched at the top of the staircase, Lydia must have just finished her caution to be careful. She asked if Ven needed her to repeat her words. Ven declined the offer.

 

               The deathlessness had been upon her since too young an age; the first time she ever died, she fell off a cliff. When her vision blacked out, she woke up an hour prior. She never went back to that cliff again. Now it was a near constant force. Any mistake made somewhere along the line that resulted in her own death could be easily circumvented when she awoke once more at some earlier point in her timeline. Sometimes it was minutes prior her death; sometimes it was hours. The longest she’d been sent back was two days. Regardless, it had been a gift and a curse that followed her throughout her life, one of indeterminate origins and causes. But now that her Dragonborn status had been made clear to her, she had an inkling of an idea why it might have followed her.

 

               “No, you’re right,” Ven replied. “We’ll go carefully. We don’t know what’s up ahead.”

 

               It was a decision that gave them a fighting chance – this time the Forsworn of the redoubt only managed to land an arrow to her shoulder, but she and Lydia made quick work of them this time. They lingered only for a moment to remove the arrow from her shoulder, Ven using what meager knowledge of restoration magic she had to close the wound, and they continued.

 

               The fight to the top saw too much death – mostly the Forsworn, but at times, the deaths of Lydia and Ven as well. Each time Ven fell in combat, she woke once more to some moment that had already passed, the knowledge of her mistakes weighing heavy on her and allowing her to proceed instead with success. The Forsworn were vicious – Ven had never faced them herself before then, but they matched every folk tale she ever heard, wildlings hardened by primitive propensities and the harsh back woods of Skyrim.

 

               It must have taken at least two hours to reach the top – at least, to Ven. In reality it must have only been a half an hour at most, but Gods, was she exhausted. About ready to collapse. The encampment up top held plenty of supplies, and would make a good place to stay for the night. Good thing, too, given the fact that the sun had just dipped behind the horizon of the mountains.

 

               “There’s something up ahead.” Lydia spoke almost as soon as Ven had settled down to rest, and the Redguard had to stifle an exhausted groan. Good Gods, what else could this ruin throw at them? She’d already died three times – she didn’t need to fight with anything more.

 

               “What do you hear?”

 

               “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like words, but it’s…  _voices_. Definitely. Beyond the bridge over there.” Lydia gestured to the path some twenty feet away from them, leading to a large stone bridge, Nordic in architecture, that spanned the space between the mountains the redoubt was settled on. It would be an awfully long drop if anything were to happen there…

 

               “Well, we can’t settle down till everything else is taken care of. Come on.” Pushing herself up from the stone she’d sat on, Ven took a moment to compose herself, straightening her armor before grabbing her bow and arrow.

 

               Following close behind, Lydia gripped the hilt of her sword tightly. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she murmured, voice low, barely above a whisper. Ven nodded, confirmation that she understood her sentiments.

 

               Light soon became a scarcity as they proceeded along the bridge – but, approaching the thin curtain of leaves and fabric that had been set up to separate whatever was beyond it from the rest of the world, the flicker of flame soon became clear.

 

               When they were upon it, Ven quietly, carefully nocked an arrow into the string of her bow, and as silently as she possibly could, she moved the curtain out of the way with her foot.

 

               Two Hagravens and a Forsworn Briarheart.

 

               Despite her now pounding heart, she kept the tremor out of her hand and drew the arrow back. It was loosed into the neck of the Briarheart. He fell instantly; the Hagravens would not be so easy.

 

               Lydia rushed forward as soon as they were noticed – she did this each time they faced against the beasts on the other side of the curtain.

 

               It took three tries to defeat them; Ven died the first two. A hearty dose of electricity to the heart the first; a Hagraven’s claw tearing out her throat the second.

 

               The third, Ven found victory; despite the effort it took, she managed to fell both Hagravens. When she was sufficiently sure beyond a reasonable doubt that their corpses were really corpses and the Hagravens on the ground before her were dead, she turned to Lydia to celebrate. She was met with a felled Lydia instead. There was no pulse when she checked, and with a heavy heart, Ven grabbed Lydia’s blade and drove it deep into her chest. She died in less than a minute.

 

               True success came the fourth time. When the Hagravens had been slain, Ven was at Lydia’s side in an instant, each of them battered and bruised and Lydia very nearly dead, but in sufficient enough condition for Ven to not consider killing herself and trying again.

 

               “I’m going to move you.” Lydia’s head cradled on her lap, Ven spoke with gentle inflection, all her touches as soft as her voice. “Just over the bridge to the camp so I can patch you up.”

 

               “Thank you, my Thane.” Lydia truly was a blade’s breadth away from death; moving her would be a delicate operation, and bringing her back to something resembling full health, even more so.

 

               It took Lydia being slung over her back, Ven doing nearly all the work to guide her the short distance across the bridge, a trip that took what felt like a lifetime. Lydia was large, well over an ell and a half in height and at least a stone heavier than Ven, muscular, well built, and tall to boot. Heavy enough that Ven struggled to carry her, but given that Lydia wasn’t quite able to support her own weight, moving her legs only enough to keep the procession going and avoid become entirely dead weight, Ven had very little other choice than to support the near entirety of Lydia’s body weight.

 

               Settled on a rock, Lydia sat idle as Ven rummaged through their things for a bedroll. She wasn’t about to place Lydia, with all her open wounds, on a bedroll that had been used prior by a Foresworn; it would be filthy and foul, ridden with stench even the simplest of humans would wretch at contact with, and she wasn’t about to subject the other to that, certainly not while she was as close to Sovngarde’s embrace as she was.

 

               “Here – come here.” Ven gestured for Lydia to move again, but despite her words she wasn’t actually expecting Lydia to move herself – instead, went to her side and helped get her onto the bedroll, sprawled out next to the firepit. These moderate summer nights were cool and dry, calm weather making it easy to sleep beneath sequin-silver stars without worrying over a need for shelter from Skyrim’s harsh storms. From where she lay, she had a perfect view of the sun dipping behind the crest of the mountains, sky awash and ablaze with colors found at the heart of a fire, colors she liked to imagine Ven felt churning in her belly and found tearing from her maw with every Shout. Even on the thin line of death, she watched how  _living_  the sky was, how mutable and changing.

 

               Ven was no mage, though at times like this, she certainly wished she had a stronger grasp of magic. The school of restoration was all she’d dabbled in – and dabbled, even, was an awfully generous word. Once Lydia’s armor had been removed to expose the injuries underneath, the blood from the wound in her abdomen soaking into her underclothing, Ven was only able to close the injuries at best with the golden flicker of magic that shorted itself out in her palm when the extent of her abilities had passed. With some bandaging and Ven’s strongest potion, however, both were sure she would be able to travel by morning. Already, the worst of the pain had subsided and Lydia felt almost content, if that was the right word for it.

 

               When darkness had been on them for at least an hour, Ven having returned with pheasants to eat that were presently spitroasting over the fire that almost washed out the stars above completely, Lydia spoke up at last.

 

               “What was on that wall there? The words that glowed when you approached them.”

 

               Ven looked up from the apple she was slicing in her palm, quiet for a moment with eyes on Lydia. The Housecarl tore her eyes from the night sky to meet her gaze, but could only hold it for a moment before Ven turned back to what was in her hands.

 

               “One of the words of the Thu’um. There was one at Bleak Falls Barrow as well – it was the only one I had before this. I think it was the one Ulfric used against the High King.” Her tone turned sour at those last words – neither were particularly fond of the Stormcloak resistance, and now that Ven knew her abilities were so closely tied to those that Ulfric to murder Torygg, Divines rest his soul, she knew the Dragonborn must have harbored some level of umbrage over the whole ordeal.

 

               “Can you show me? The one you learned, I mean.”

 

               Some of the bitterness left Ven’s expression as she turned her gaze back to Lydia, smiling in earnest. “Not now. I can’t… use it yet. I couldn’t use the first till we felled that dragon – I suppose I have to do the same again to be able to use this one.”

 

               “But you will show me the other, right?”

 

               “I did promise.”

 

* * *

Morning saw Lydia’s near-full recovery, able to fight and carry on along the road. With one last attempt at healing the wounds with what little magic she had, Ven did at least a good enough job, she decided, for Lydia to be able to carry on with her.

 

               With a small breakfast of Rock Warbler eggs found in a nearby tower and a quiet moment of repose in the early morning silence, the two elected to return to their travels. Marching down the steps in silence, the only sound the early morning birds and the clanking of their armor with each step against stone, it took no time at all to leave the whole redoubt behind. Good riddance, too – Ven would sooner be rid of those memories, and though she told herself the faster they got out of there the faster she could forget, she knew they’d always linger, always haunt.

 

               Only when the pair had crossed the river and returned to the road, and Ven turned in the wrong direction – returning to Whiterun – did Lydia stop to ask what their plans were.

 

               “Where are you going?”

 

               “We’re going home.”

 

               “Home?” Lydia was indignant. “We had plans to trek all the way to Markarth, we’ve barely gone anywhere. We can’t turn home.”

 

               “We  _can_ ,” Ven snapped, whipping around and all but baring her teeth, fronting a visage alarmingly like the creature she shared a soul with, “because what happened last night cannot happen again. We’re not prepared for a journey like this, not yet.”

 

               “One battle doesn’t mean the whole road isn’t worth it.” She knew better than to argue with her own Thane – but it had been  _years_  since she’d left the capital city of Whiterun, and never before had she been given the chance to leave the hold itself. She’d been so eager for the journey – that Ven could strip it of her at the slightest sign of danger made her blood boil.

 

               “My errands can wait, we can make the journey another time when we can handle it better.”

 

               With a wild, frustrated gesture, Lydia flung her arms towards the redoubt. “We  _did_  just handle it!”

 

               “I am  _not_  going to watch you die!”  _Not again, anyways._  Ven’s words were enough to stun the other into silence. “End of discussion. Come on.”

 

               It wasn’t as though she could defy her Thane much anyways – what choice did Lydia have?

 

               “Coming.” Her armor rattled as she trudged after, and there was no other sound from either of them in the long walk back.

 

 

* * *

 

Upon return in the late evening, the first thing Ven did back in Whiterun was purchase the local property up for sale. It was a hefty chunk of change – took a large bite out of everything she had – but it was worth it, having a place to unload her things and somewhere for Lydia to stay.

 

               Breezehome was simple and welcoming, a decently sized home with a large hearth and enough room for just the two of them. One of the rooms on the bottom remained empty – Ven had only purchased some of the furnishings for the home, and as she and Lydia explored the house, Ven remarked on what a good space it would make for an enchanting table.

 

               “Or an alchemy lab,” Lydia suggested from across the living room, making her way towards the stairs. Ven turned her nose up at that.

 

               “I’m not particularly one for alchemy. Not much of an enchanter, either, but Gods, certainly not an alchemist.”

 

               “I could learn the skill.”

 

               Ven rounded the corner of the room, coming out of the doorway and stopping just where she could see Lydia, stopped just at the stairs, one foot on the bottom stair and the other flat on the floor.

 

               “Really?”

 

               “I’ve never done much of anything that wasn’t fighting and serving but I think alchemy could be nice. A nice hobby. Useful, too.”

 

               Ven was quiet for a moment, and for a beat of silence, Lydia was certain she’d said the wrong thing – she couldn’t read the other’s expression, not till her whole face softened and Ven looked at her with startling endearance.

 

               “I’ll look into it, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

Ven left Whiterun at that dark hour of the night only hours before half-light, stars still splashed across the sky like silver splattered blood of Gods, the night pitch save for the tremendous heavens above and the occasional flicker of flame off the torch of a scarce passing guard. She’d made preparations earlier – purchased a horse from the local stables, asked them to hold it for her for a few septims more, and came for it when scarcely a soul remained awake. As soon as she was on the road, hooves of her horse beating hard down on the stone of the road, the lights were gone and it was only her, the darkness, and the guiding light of Tall Papa’s heavens above.

 

               When Lydia woke just past sunrise, the house was empty, cold even for the fire still burning hot and proud in the hearth. Ven had long since departed – weapons and armor gone, not a trace of her, no note or letter left despite the ink and paper left haphazardly on the table. When things began arriving to the home for Lydia – an alchemy table, ingredients, books, things she never ordered – she realized the letter had never been meant for her in the first place, and she sincerely, bitterly, hoped the local merchants appreciated receiving Ven’s goodbyes before her disappearance.

 

               The time that passed went achingly slow – even alternating between watching over the house and returning to work with the other Housecarls of Dragonsreach, life was horribly dull when all she had was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Measurement notes: an ell is 45 inches, and a stone is 14 pounds. Both are relatively medieval forms of measurement; I don’t have any idea if there’s an established form of measurement in the Elder Scrolls series, I couldn't find anything on the subject, but these seemed reasonable enough? Stones are still used as measurements of human weight and I've seen examples of ells being used as measurements of human height.


End file.
